If I Had Wings
by thescissoring
Summary: Fran snuggled into his side, her head on his shoulder and her arm over his middle. She closed her eyes and hummed softly, a tune that Maxwell didn't recognize. "That sounds lovely," he said. "Will you sing it to me?" This surprised Fran, as, in her experience, most people who had heard her speak would never ask her to sing. But she nodded against his chest and took a breath.


Maxwell hated being sick ever since he was a child. Nanny Mueller would tuck him into his bed with a cool cloth over his forehead, and stroke his cheek affectionately. She would tell him, "Sleep and be strong, little Maxwell," But she would leave him, needing to tend to his younger siblings, and he would be left alone, much like he was right now.

He was in his bed, the covers pulled up under his chin. The worst part of the flu for him was the fever. The cold sweat and shivers were terribly uncomfortable, and he always seemed to have vivid dreams that were difficult to separate from reality. He pulled the covers more tightly around him and curled onto his left side in an attempt to make himself more comfortable.

The flu had made its way through the Sheffield home that winter. It started with Grace and Brighton, spreading quickly to Margaret and Niles, then Miss Babcock. Maxwell was the last to be affected, waking up one morning with a sore throat, and by that evening he'd been reduced to a coughing, sniffling mess. He had been meant to take Fran on another date that evening, but she was more than understanding. Fran, in fact, was the only one who had been spared by the illness. When asked about how she had managed to avoid it, she just winked and said it was her secret. She had ushered him up the stairs and into his bedroom, telling him not to worry about missing work, or making sure the children were fed and cared for through their own illness. She would handle everything, she had told him.

Maxwell was pulled from his thoughts by a light knock on his door. Assuming it was Niles, he invited the knocker into his room without much thought. To his surprise however, it was not Niles, but Fran, clad in a bathrobe and slippers, her hair pulled up onto the top of her head. She was carrying a steaming mug in one hand, and a small cup of something Maxwell couldn't recognize in the other.

"Want a little company, honey?" she asked as she padded into the room. Maxwell smiled at the sight of her and scooted over, making room for her to sit beside him.

"I hope I don't get you sick as well, Fran," he said as he sat up and Fran settled in close to him. She placed both cups on the bedside table and waved her hand dismissively.

"I told you, I'm not gonna catch it. I would have by now anyway." She raised her hands to his cheeks and pressed her lips to his forehead. She had been doing this to all of them, checking the progression of their fevers. _We do have a thermometer, Miss Fine_, Niles had told her after she made the rounds with the kids, but she had refused it, saying her way was more comforting.

"Ninety-nine point four," she mused, letting her hands caress Maxwell's face before letting him go. "Here, drink this," she said, pushing the smaller cup into his hands. Maxwell eyed it suspiciously.

"What is it?" He swirled the golden liquid around the cup, trying to identify it.

"Drink it and then I'll tell you. Trust me?" Maxwell sighed. He trusted her more than anyone else. He put the cup to his lips and tipped it back, and a subtle sweetness enveloped his tongue. Once he drained the cup and handed it back to Fran, he looked to her for an answer.

"It's onion and honey," she explained. "The kids have been drinking it all week. Niles still refuses, so, he's gonna be sick the longest." Maxwell was surprised, as it hadn't tasted like onion at all. He could already feel a pleasant warmth trailing its way through his chest. "Now, you get this one." Fran handed him the green mug and smiled. "This one's even betta."

Maxwell took a sip of the hot drink, feeling relief in his throat as the creamy liquid soothed it.

"Mmm… what's this? It's delicious." He took another sip and savored it for a moment before swallowing.

"It's called a guggle muggle… I make them for the kids when they're sick. Ma used to make them for me. Do you wanna know what's in it?" Maxwell nodded as he drank more deeply from the mug. "It's an egg yolk beaten with sugar, and then you add hot milk and a shot of whiskey." Maxwell's eyes widened as he struggled to swallow the mouthful of guggle muggle. Fran laughed and rubbed his back. "Relax, I use vanilla for theirs. No underage drinking here."

"Well you might have lead with that," he grumbled, but she knew he wasn't truly annoyed with her.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and as Maxwell nursed the rest of his drink, Fran continued to rub his back in slow circles. They had been officially dating for several months now, and, much to Fran's delight, Maxwell had become increasingly comfortable with physical closeness, allowing Fran to be touchy and loving. They hadn't exchanged 'I love yous' yet, though they expressed the sentiment in other ways. Maxwell would reach for her hand out of the blue and lace their fingers together, or wrap one arm around her waist when they were sitting beside each other. He would find himself tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and she would run her hands over his arms and shoulders. They kissed each other good morning and good-bye, and when he walked her up the stairs and to her room at night. Their relationship had flourished with these quiet, tender moments.

Maxwell reached across Fran to set his now empty mug on the table. He leaned back against the headboard, stifling a yawn.

"You should try and sleep," Fran said, making to get up, but Maxwell caught her hand with his. He looked to her with a silent plea, one that he wasn't quite able to vocalize yet, but he knew she would understand.

"Do you want me to stay with you until you fall asleep?" She asked and he nodded, squeezing her hand. He lied down on his back and Fran turned the light off before she snuggled into his side, her head on his shoulder and her arm over his middle. She rubbed his chest and he played with her hair, something he had recently discovered how much she enjoyed. Fran closed her eyes and hummed softly, a tune that Maxwell didn't recognize.

"That sounds lovely," he said. "Will you sing it to me?" This surprised Fran, as, in her experience, most people who had heard her speak would never ask her to sing. But she nodded against his chest and took a breath.

"Ven ikh zol hobn fligelekh, ay, volt ikh dokh tsu dir gefloygn. Un ven ikh zol hobn keytelekh, volt ikh zikh tsu dir getsoygn." She sang softly in what Maxwell assumed to be Yiddish. Her voice was melodic and haunting, enchanting and melancholy. She seemed to sing with a sadness that could only have been felt by her. Put simply, her voice was as beautiful as she was. Maxwell had heard her sing before, but she had never sounded quite like this. Perhaps it was from slipping into her mother tongue, or the love with which she sang the words. It sounded like a love song. He wasn't sure. But he listened eagerly, not caring that he couldn't understand the lyrics.

"Oy, af yener zayt taykh, af yener zayt breg, oy, zaynen di tsvaygn geboygn. Dortn, dortn shteyt mayn zis-lebn, mit farveynte oygn.

Oy her shoyn uf tsu veynen, her shoyn uf tsu klogn, mit veynen vestu gornit makhn. Efn uf mayn harts, vestu zen, vi s'iz shvarts, vestu visn, vi lib hob ikh dikh."

Fran sang the last line and nuzzled her face into Maxwell's neck, suddenly feeling bashful. She had, in her mind, effectively told Maxwell that she loved him, though it had been in a song and in another language. But she had never spoken the words to him aloud.

"That was beautiful. I didn't know you could sing like that. I guess you have more than one secret." He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Would you… _Can _you sing it to me in English?"

Fran chuckled.

"It loses some of the tune in translation. But I'll try for you." Maxwell closed his eyes as she began to sing again.

"If I had wings, I would fly to you. And if I had chains, I would pull you to me.

On that side of the river, on that side of the bank, the boughs are bent. There, there stands my sweetheart with tearful eyes.

Oh stop weeping, stop wailing, you will accomplish nothing with tears. Open up my heart, you'll see that it's black…" Fran hesitated before singing the final line. It was just a song. There was no reason for him to read any more into it.

"You'll know how much I love you."

Fran stiffened, waiting for Maxwell's reaction, but the only one that came was a tightening of his arms around her, and a hand lovingly caressing her arm. She relaxed, allowing herself to melt into him again.

Maxwell fumbled for words. It was time, he knew it, he felt it. He wanted so badly to say what he was feeling. Out of nowhere, he thought of Benedick and Beatrice, from the play they were reviving, and he knew exactly what to say.

"I do love nothing in the world so well as you." He kissed the top of her head once more. Fran knew the play he quoted. _Much Ado About Nothing. _It was one of her favorites. She moved to look him in the eye. The moonlight shining through the window behind them was more than enough to see him with.

"I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest." She leaned forward to kiss him, knowing she wasn't going to get sick but not caring if she did. They pulled apart and she repositioned herself at his side. She began to hum again, lulling them both to sleep.

* * *

The idea of Fran singing Maxwell to sleep came to me today, and then I just had to write a whole scene around it.


End file.
